The cell smelled like rust and salt.
Elma stood just outside the bars, arms folded, letting her shadow fall across the bruised man slumped inside. House Thorn's envoy hadn't lost his size or his pride in the duel, only the strength to stand. His armor had been stripped, leaving his chest a map of ice-burn scars and fresh cuts. Chains locked his wrists, humming faintly with the magic Nitron's guards preferred.
He looked up when she came, lips split, one eye swollen. But his grin—his grin was alive.
"The Master's dog," he rasped.
Elma tilted her head. "Still have teeth?"
"You straddled me in front of half the city." His laugh was a cough. "Made me say yield like a child. But a dog doesn't stop being chained just because it wins a fight."
She let the words roll over her. He wanted her rattled. She wasn't giving him that. "You want another round? I'll do it without the crowd this time."
He leaned forward, chains creaking. His voice dropped. "House Thorn knows about your leash."
Her smirk faltered a fraction.
He saw it. His grin widened, bloody. "We know how it bites. How it punishes when you wander too far. How he pulls you back like a choke chain. Break the leash, girl, and you don't just break free—you break him."
Elma's stomach knotted. "You don't know shit."
"Don't I?" he whispered, eyes gleaming with spite. "Ask yourself why you can't walk away. Why every time you taste freedom, something claws you back. He didn't build that leash alone. Thorn had its hands in it once. And we can undo it."
Her nails dug crescents into her palm. She turned sharply, silk brushing the bars. "You'll still die chained. Don't forget that."
His laugh followed her down the hall, low and broken but sure. "Dogs remember who offered them scissors."
The system chimed in her skull, smug as ever.
[New Quest Seed: Thorn's Bargain]
Status: Hidden.
Risk: Treason.
Reward: Leash fracture.
She walked faster until the hall spit her back into air that wasn't poisoned by words.
The beach resort gleamed like gold poured into sand.
Nitron had rented the entire crescent for a single night, tents rising along the shoreline like silk palaces, firepits licking at the dusk, the ocean stretched out flat and black. Guests mingled barefoot in designer clothes, their laughter competing with the crash of waves. Musicians plucked strings from inside a tent, their notes carried on salted wind.
Nitron, of course, wasn't here. The Master didn't lower himself to entertain. He let his name do it for him.
Elma moved through the party like a rumor in white linen. Eyes followed her—some admiring, some resentful, all hungry. She let the stares slide off, a smirk fixed on her mouth. Inside, the envoy's words gnawed.
Then she saw her.
Calista Vale. Crimson against the sand, hair pinned high and already coming loose. She stood with a cluster of donors, glass in hand, laughing too loud at nothing. Her cheeks were flushed. Her smile cracked at the edges.
Elma frowned. Calista never lost control in public. Not like this.
Hours bled. Guests paired off, drifted into tents, vanished down the beach. The firepits burned lower. And Calista—Calista only drank more. By the time Elma found her again, the wife was barefoot, heels abandoned in the sand, a half-empty bottle dangling from her hand. She swayed at the shoreline, eyes glassy, mascara streaked.
Elma approached slowly. The waves foamed around their ankles. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, softer than she meant. Then she caught herself, scoffing. "Never mind. I know you hate me now."
Calista's head snapped up, and for once there was no mask. Just wet, broken eyes. She stumbled forward and caught Elma's wrist, nails biting. "Don't you dare walk away from me."
Elma blinked, stunned. "You're drunk."
Calista laughed, but it cracked into a sob halfway. She pulled Elma in—too close, the scent of wine heavy on her breath—and clung to her like she was drowning. "He knows," she whispered, voice shaking. "Nitron knows we're too close. He—he asked me. Said he suspected. Said he could smell it."
Elma froze. "What did you tell him?"
Calista buried her face against Elma's shoulder, shoulders trembling. "Nothing. I told him nothing. But he didn't need proof. He told me I was never to go near you again. Said I was meddling in his business. That if I touched you again, he'd…" Her breath hitched. "He'd burn me out of this house."
The waves hissed. Elma's arms hovered, then lowered, wrapping Calista tight. She felt the woman's ribs, the tremor in her body.
"You don't hate me," Elma murmured.
Calista shook her head against her. "I hate him. I hate what he makes me. What he takes from me. But you—" She cut herself off, sobbing harder.
Elma closed her eyes. The envoy's words, Nitron's leash, Calista's tears—all tangled.
The system intruded.
[Warning: Emotional Entanglement Detected]
Loyalty Threshold: 58%
Penalty Possible: Double leash enforcement.
Elma gritted her teeth. "He doesn't own every piece of us," she said, low.
Calista's grip tightened. "Doesn't he?"
For a long time they stood there, waves soaking their dresses, the world beyond the shoreline spinning with drunken laughter. Calista's sobs eased into shallow breaths. Her head grew heavier against Elma's shoulder until sleep dragged her down.
Elma shifted, lifting her, carrying her away from the waterline. She glanced back at the sea once, the horizon black and endless.
"He'll never let us be," Calista had whispered before sleep took her.
Elma looked down at her, at the diamond ring still clutched in her fist like a shackle, and smiled a broken smile. "Then maybe he won't be around forever."
[Rumor Meter: 29%]
Story Seed: The wife drinks too much when the Master is absent.
New Event Triggered: Thorn scouts en route to the resort.
Elma laid Calista down in a shaded tent, brushed hair from her damp cheek, and stood watch against the tide. Somewhere in the dark, she swore she heard the envoy's laugh again, promising scissors for a dog's chain.